


How I Learned to Stop Worrying...

by maccom



Series: Perfect Strangers [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Consensual Sex, Eden Questline (Final Fantasy XIV) Spoilers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Flashbacks, Flogging, Introspection, Pegging, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Switching, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), it's a slow burn in the sense the explicit parts are in the last chapter, switch!emet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:47:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23331157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maccom/pseuds/maccom
Summary: The First is saved, the Rejoining halted, and the Scions already look to their next problem. While the world moves on Hades struggles to come to terms with his newfound freedom, as memories and guilt pull him back to a life he cannot simply forget - especially when that life continues to ripple through his relationship with the Warrior of Light.Continuation of Mother - would highly recommend reading that first! The two other parts in this series are optional.Takes place during the events of 5.1.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch & Warrior of Light, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Series: Perfect Strangers [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571320
Comments: 42
Kudos: 142





	1. And Tell the Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If infertility is a trigger I would recommend skipping this chapter. It will not come up in future chapters. Sorry!

“Your assistance shall not be required today.”

Hades pauses with one foot over the threshold. The Exarch stands facing his mirrored glass wall, his back to the door of the Ocular as he watches something Hades cannot quite see. “Were we not due to test your theory this morning?”

“Unfortunately my theory must wait for another day.” G’raha Tia turns, revealing a strange, closed expression on his face. “Your presence has been requested elsewhere.”

“Requested.” Hades slips his hands into his trouser pockets and narrows his eyes. No one has _requested_ his presence since his Warrior saved his life; even G’raha - who needs him for his research - tolerates him by necessity. “By whom?”

“A small group has begun a new expedition into the Empty,” the Miqo’te replies. “Returning the Scions to the Source is ever a priority, but there have been - _complications_ \- of a sort that your expertise would be better suited south of Amh Araeng.”

Complications? His expertise in what? He is unaware of any work happening in the Empty, unless -

“She’s out there, isn’t she?”

G’raha tilts his head. “With Thancred, Urianger, and Ryne. As I understand it, Ryne is manipulating the aether in the land so as to create new primals -”

Hades doesn’t let him finish; the last thing he sees is G’raha’s exasperated shrug before a cloud of dark aether blots out his vision. Moments later he floats in Amh Araeng, facing that massive frozen wave of aether. 

It isn’t that he doesn’t trust her - there is no one he trusts more - but she can be overly headstrong when caution would be more prudent. To dive into creation magic without so much as a primer will not end well, regardless of what power or understanding that Oracle girl may have. It rankles him that they did not think to consult him - who would know better? Who would guide them safely through this trial? Who would tell them the risks?

“Foolish hero,” he mutters. That enormous space expands far into the horizon; finding her will not be easy.

Unless - 

He closes his eyes. All that Light aether pulls at him, calling him like a river calls a man dying of thirst: the temptation to use it is a heady experience, but in truth he wouldn’t know what to do with it. He ignores it, sending his prying senses elsewhere, further, as far as he can possibly go - 

There - distantly, beyond the horizon in that bleak, blasted landscape, he senses something different: a focused shape of aether, a being akin to a Lightwarden. His heart skips a beat as fear tenses his limbs, but it is not her - her aether is safe, healed, beyond reach of the nightmare that once played out before his eyes. Whatever that massive being is, it is not what he fears most. 

But it _is_ where she is most likely to be.

“What are you meddling with now?” He gives his head a shake before disappearing into another cloud of aether. 

*

The Warrior of Light is deep in conversation with the astrologian when Hades appears on a ledge behind them. Though his heart soars to see her, his attention is immediately captured by the massive creature behind them: half living being, half mechanical creation, it is unlike anything he has ever seen. _This_ is what pulls at him so strongly, mimicking a Lightwarden with the mass amount of energy radiating from it. Strangely it does not appear to be dormant: he is unsure what experiments they have conducted, but the creature - machine? - is awake.

Pulling his focus away from that anomaly, he notices the tents set up around the Light-bleached land below him. The group clearly intends to stay for a long period of time - which is a curious development, given that his Warrior had made no mention of it when he kissed her goodbye that very morning…

“Hades!”

Ryne spots him first, appearing near a small aether shard near their little camp. She looks pleased, which is a far cry from Urianger’s expression, but it is Thancred’s muffled groan, coming from one of the tents, that irks Hades the most.

“ _You_ requested I join you,” he reminds them, using magic to drift down from his ledge to their camp. “Should you prefer I return to the Crystarium -”

“No.” The Warrior gives him a quick smile, but he can tell nerves are playing with her ability to focus. “Thancred will behave.”

The Hyur sticks his head out of his tent, looking disheveled and annoyed. “Me? Behave? Am I the one you have to tie to the -”

“ _Behave_ ,” she repeats louder, her dark eyes snapping to the man. “Take care of our guest, please - we will work out the next part on Eden.”

Hades raises an eyebrow as Thancred lets the tent flap fall; they can all hear his angry mutters through the thin fabric. Whatever the situation is, it seems he has walked into a stressful day for these Scions. “What question would you rather I ask first: what guest do you accomodate or what is Eden?”

“Eden,” she says tiredly, gesturing behind her at that massive mystery. “I can’t explain much more than that.”

He steps forward, his eyes catching on what she no doubt hoped he’d miss. He captures her wrist in one hand, feeling his heartbeat quicken as he pulls her bare arm towards him. Bruises flare along her forearm and elbow; looking closer he sees cuts and scratches along her neck and shoulders. “You’ve been fighting without me, hero.”

She cracks her neck from side to side. “Don’t I always?” Catching the look on his face, she changes tactics and jerks her chin in the direction of the tents. “Our guest was not pleased to find me among her welcoming committee.”

“She hurt you.” Hades’s voice is a whisper as one finger traces the fine cut along her collarbone; he recognizes the anger building within, anger tinged with traces of fear. It is a foolish, unfounded desire to protect her - to find whoever laid a hand on her and take them apart piece by piece - but he _knows_ she does not need his protection. She is more than capable of taking care of herself.

“Not as much as I hurt her.” She pushes his hand away and leans forward, forcing his eyes to meet hers. “Scratches and bumps, Hades - nothing I can’t handle.”

He bites his tongue, forcing himself to take a mental step back from the dark paths he wanders. She’d tell him were she in danger - but his anger does not disperse so easily. “You summoned me here - why?”

Her dark eyes slide to Urianger, who has watched their exchange like a mouse caught between hawks, before sliding back to him. “We think we know how to fix the Empty, but we’re going to need your help.”

*

They stand on a large square platform in the deepest, darkest parts of a crevice. The Warrior of Light stalks back and forth, her hands on her hips as she scuffs the heels of her boots on the stone arena. He recognizes her anxiety and knows he could curb it, but some of his anger from earlier persists: whether she could handle the situation without him or not is a moot point. She _should_ have requested his aid from the onset. That they only thought of him once they established they would be using creation magic unsettles him - is he not their ally? Is he not the single most powerful soul on their side? To leave him to fix theoretical problems with the Exarch while they battle strange entities is not only frustrating, it is belittling.

Ah, but that is his pride speaking - and as willing as he is to beg in the bedroom, he will not fall to his knees here. 

They have asked for his help - _finally_ \- and he has given it, though he is as unsure as they as to whether they will succeed. Creating their version of a primal rests on his Warrior’s shoulders - but he is only too happy to assist in its destruction.

“Pacing achieves nothing,” he says quietly, waiting with his arms crossed over his chest. He’d rolled his sleeves up to his elbows; it is irritating to find the crevices of the Empty are just as hot as the deserts of Amh Araeng. What he would not give for a little water - though he may find himself with an ocean’s worth, should their magic come to fruition.

“I didn’t hold the thought,” she says, still pacing. “I couldn’t focus. ‘Picture Leviathan’, she said, and I pictured Leviathan - for an instant. Holding the image in my mind is like holding water in cupped hands: it drains too fast to fix.”

“Practice makes it easier,” he admits. “In all honesty, it is more likely we find ourselves facing a fish than the true primal you remember.”

The look of pity she shoots him slides a sliver of anxiety through his chest. “A _fish_. Hades, do you have any idea how many sea creatures I’ve battled?”

“Ah -”

“Rather more than I’ve fished,” she continues, turning from him as a roar echoes its way through the crevice. “Would that I had thought of fish, and not the other creatures down in the depths - we might find this far easier!”

Another roar shakes their platform, dislodging all of Hades’s quiet confidence. He uncrosses his arms and moves to the edge of the arena, watching with narrowed eyes for any movement. Long seconds pass, impossibly anxious moments, before he hears a cry above them.

“It comes!” Ryne, from the hiding place she shares with the two Scions, is far above the arena they intend to battle upon. “Make ready!”

“Shit.” His Warrior stands beside him, shaking her head as another blast of sound shakes everything around them. “Oh, what have I done -”

He gapes wordlessly as the creature finally comes into view, roiling and coiling in and around itself. Though his first impression is “snake”, the longer he stares the more he thinks of wyverns and dragons - even more so when it finally slows down enough for him to realize there are _two_ heads on this beast.

“Hero,” he says quietly, watching wide-eyed as that mass of scales and barbs passes overhead. “What did you think of instead of Leviathan?”

“Shinryu,” she moans, staring at the creation as it descends to their level. “I couldn’t help it - just for a moment!”

“A moment is all it takes.” He watches the monstrous Leviathan swim back and forth, teeth in both mouths gnashing as the heads snap in their direction. A thought occurs to him and he can’t stop a huff of incredulous laughter. “My great-grandson’s pet primal! Who would have thought?”

“Your _what_?”

He recoils as his humour drains in an instant. “Ah. Surely you knew -“

“Great-grandson.” Her skin has turned so pale; her dark eyes are massive as shock and horror flitters across her face. “Of _course_ Zenos is descended from Solus but you - you - you were never _Solus_ to me!” She runs her hands through her hair. “Shit!”

Distantly they hear Thancred’s voice, drifting down from his perch high above them. “Is now really the time?”

“It is!” She turns furious eyes back to Hades even as she grabs her staff from her back, swirling it in large loops to either side of herself. “What kind of parenting do they espouse in Garlemald? What did your grandson do to create that _monster_?”

Leviathan turns both its heads, hissing as it determines the source of all the noise below it. Hades’s gaze bounces between the creature and the furious Warrior in front of him, weighing his odds. “Love, I believe Thancred has a point -”

“A _point_?” She casts without looking; a shield forms around her seconds before one of the heads lunges. It bounces off her invisible protection with a look of mild confusion. “Zenos tried to kill me!”

“Consider it the new Galvus family tradition!” Hades ducks, hearing the _whoosh_ of her staff as it misses his head by ilms. He can’t decide if he wants to laugh or jump off the side of the arena; either choice would seal his fate. “Might we discuss this _after_ we deal with the sea creature?”

“Oh, you bet we will,” she mutters darkly, finally turning from him to face Leviathan. “Show me what you can do, ‘sorcerer of eld’.”

He doesn’t have time to reply before one of those heads careens towards him. He vanishes in a cloud of aether, reappearing a few fulms above the platform. “It tried to eat me.”

“Good,” she snaps. “I commend it on its taste.” She flings a ball of light aether towards the other head, earning a roar of rage from the head pursuing Hades. 

“I don’t know how Zenos was raised,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over Leviathan’s roars. He flicks a finger towards the head nearest him; a bolt of dark energy hits it hard enough to bring the head crashing down onto the platform. It shakes back and forth, dazed. “I barely knew the boy. Whatever he became is the fault of Varis, not me.”

“You never checked up on him? No family visits, no dinners with children?” She sends ball after ball of aether at Leviathan, dodging its attacks effortlessly as her fury turns her face a deep, worrying shade of red. He’s glad the beast in front of them distracts her even a little; to have that much anger directed his way would be more than a little unsettling.

“What does this matter?” 

“Why not answer the question?” she returns, scrambling to one side as a tidal wave nearly knocks her into the darkness below.

“Why not ask the question you dance around?” He evades another attack by teleporting; the creature’s head slams into the platform once again. “The floor is beginning to crack, hero.”

She pays his warning no mind. “Enlighten me, oh Emperor: what is the question I’m avoiding?”

“Was I a good family patriarch?” 

She spins towards him, desperation and jealousy - _jealousy!_ \- etched onto her face. Both of Leviathan’s heads choose that moment to charge at the platform; the edges give way under the force of it. He sees her begin to fall, her jealousy changing to shock in an instant, and he _reaches_. His magic catches her before she plummets to the dark recesses, holding her aloft like a marionette on strings. 

He can’t understand the anger in her eyes, the pain and the desire intermingling. It isn’t for him, and it certainly isn’t for Zenos, unless - 

_Oh._

Ryne finally restores the platform; great stone slabs settle into place where the old ones had been moments before. Hades releases the Warrior of Light; their eyes meet and his heart aches for the hurt he sees there. 

“Enough,” he says, spinning in the air to bring his arm down facing Leviathan. He cocks his hand like a pistol, pointer finger directed out with his others curled inwards, and as one of the heads lunges towards him - maw wide, teeth glinting, tiny eyes furious - he lowers his thumb to touch his finger. “Bang.”

A massive ball of aether explodes from within the creature’s skull, expanding outwards in purple and black flames. The neck falls to the platform below, winding and twisting even as the other head bellows in rage and pain. He makes to move towards it but his hero is faster: she spins her staff and her aether manifests as a shower of pink and red flower petals. It is deceptively pretty, as the power behind that spell crushes Leviathan’s remaining head.

Hades lowers himself to the platform even as the creature disperses into aether, vanishing from sight. He does not care about it, or the trio watching them from above the ledge: his feet take him to his Warrior's side in an instant.

“I’m sorry,” he says, wanting to touch her but not wanting to push her any further. Her back is to him as she stares motionless at the space where Leviathan had been. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

He can’t see her face, but her voice speaks to her hurt. “Did we - did you and I - before the end of the world - did we have -” She cuts herself off, but it is obvious now where her thoughts take her.

“A family?”

*

_“The Convocation shall be our family,” she says, false cheer altering her voice. “Some days they are like enough to children as to make no difference.”_

_“Love -”_

_“And I have my students!” She walks ahead of him, her quick feet leading her away even as he rushes to keep up. Amaurot’s streets are deserted near the physicians' quarters; the cold morning mists keep smarter beings indoors. “So many bright, intelligent souls I can help grow and learn - so much potential, year after year!”_

_“Wait, please -”_

_“And our creations, of course! Are they not a form of life? A form of birth -” She falters, skidding to a stop. Her hands cover her face as her breathing changes, as she takes great, shuddering gulps of air._

_Hades wraps his arms around her, pressing her head against his shoulder as she begins to sob in earnest. He narrows his eyes and clenches his teeth, his heart aching for them both - had he not wanted this just as badly? Had he not reveled in the possibility? It is one thing to create new beings through magic and thought; it is something else entirely to do so naturally._

_“Mayhap they are mistaken -” he tries, his voice gruff with emotion, but she frantically shakes her head against his chest._

_“I will not harbour false hope,” she murmurs, her face still buried in his robes. “I know this is our truth -_ **_my_ ** _truth.” She shivers against him; when she speaks her voice sounds small and tired. “I’m sorry, Hades.”_

 _“No - no apologies. Not to me.” He takes one of her hands in his and pulls it up to his lips, gently kissing the back of her freezing fingers. He understands her need to apologize, just as he understands why she feels such guilt, but he will not allow it. “We are in this together, are we not? We can do_ **_so much_ ** _for Amaurot, love - there is no reason to apologize for that.”_

_“But -” Her voice falls so, so low. **“Children,** Hades. A family.” _

_He drops her hand to push her back until he can look her in the eyes. They are red-rimmed beneath her mask; he can see the track marks of tears along her jaw. As easy as it could be, his conviction is unshakeable: he will not lie to her. “Of course I want a family - I always have. But I want you far more, and if biology dictates what we can and cannot do then I choose to have you.” He wipes a tear off her chin with one finger. “You are enough.”_

*

“You were my family.”

She isn’t happy with that answer, shaking her head even before he finishes speaking. “Did we or did we not?”

It shouldn’t matter. This hurt was fresh millenia ago! This pain he should have dealt with then, not now! That the injustice of it - the _unfairness_ \- still vexes him is inexplicable. Of all the misery and sorrow, defeat and depression - of all the tragedy he has witnessed, why does this one detail still cut him off at the knees?

“You couldn’t,” he says hoarsely. “A fault from birth, the physicians said.”

“How many children have you fathered, Hades?”

He cringes. A glance above him tells him the two Scions and Ryne have vanished, hopefully returning to Eden to give the two of them some privacy. He does not want to linger in this space - to have this conversation here of all places - but given the choice he would not have this conversation at all. “Two sons.”

“What - just that in all this time?”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Don’t play the victim. You have no idea what I went through - what I lived through - what life was like after losing you -” He cuts himself off and looks away, breathing hard through his nose. Too close. Far too close. He closes his eyes. “I had to play the role: an emperor needs children. I had to provide a line of succession.”

“And that was all they were to you? Pawns in your games?”

“No!” 

*

 _A midwife passes the bundled babe into Hades’s arms; the boy sleeps soundlessly, barely stirring as Hades cradles him. It is such an alien feeling: life, born because of this body -_ **_his_ ** _body - imbued with some small shred of Hades’s very being. A successor - an heir - a child._

_His own child._

_Never has he had this. Never has he felt anything like this. As he strokes the boy’s downy hair he thinks of her - of her resistance - of her face, on that very last day, and he can’t help but wonder -_

_This tiny Garlean, this small half-soul - does it not have potential? Could it not be what he has searched for so very long?_

_Could this be what she saw in the small flickers of life she sought to save?_

*

“I loved my sons,” he says into the silence. 

“And Varis? Zenos?”

He looks down at his hands, at his long fingers. Once they had held his successors - his heirs - but watching them flicker and fade had crushed what small hope he’d been foolish enough to nurture. “They were not my sons.”

She is suddenly in front of him, sliding her hands into his. He tightens his grip, holding on to her as he meets her gaze. The anger and jealousy are gone, replaced by emotions that hurt to name: sympathy, regret, pity. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “For what? For reminding me of what I created? For asking me for the history that is rightfully yours - history that I should have told you far sooner? No, hero - the fault is mine.”

“As it usually is,” she says, a glint of humour shifting her face. Her expression changes and she looks away. “Still, I have to apologize. You were Solus as you were Emet-Selch - looking back it is obvious, but somehow I never made the connection.”

“It is a connection I do not flaunt,” he admits. “Truthfully, though they can trace their lineage to this body I would stop short of calling either of them family.” Varis having murdered Titus had not warmed Hades to his grandson in the least - but mentioning that seems like a minor point compared to the many other injustices committed in Varis’s name. “Again I complicate an already-complicated situation.”

“Yet here I still am, ready and waiting to see it through with you.” 

He pulls her close to his chest, surprising her with his sudden movement, but she relents and wraps her arms around him. For the moment it is enough to have her in his arms, to acknowledge both the gratitude and admiration he has for her, but there are larger forces at play than their own, personal history.

“Come on, hero. Best we return before they start to worry.”

“Right.” Doubt of a new kind creases her forehead. “Creation magic is not what I thought it would be.”

“Practice, love. All it takes is practice.”

*

“Why does it look like _that_?!”

Hades can hardly stand for laughter; he rests his hands on his thighs, gasping as he fights to control himself. His hero dashes back and forth across a giant stone platform, a massive grid of land in a blasted, rocky landscape, while her rendition of Titan chases her relentlessly. Hades should be with her, but upon seeing the muscular, man-shaped being - a far cry from the golem he remembers Titan to be - he could do nothing but give in to his humour.

“Are you going to help her?” Thancred stands nearby, arms crossed over his chest as he watches the Warrior of Light dodge landslide after landslide.

“Oh, I suppose.” He wipes tears from his eyes, intending to float down to that square of land to put an end to this delightful display, but hearing her shriek of dismay as “Titan” turns itself into a wheeled vehicle sends him into a fresh bout of laughter.

What a relief that his hero cannot do _everything_ right!


	2. And Admit My Fears

They stumble into the Pendants late that evening, exhausted, bloody, and aching in places Hades wasn’t aware he could ache. Though the Warrior is ready to fall into bed he drags her to the bathing rooms and tumbles her into a tub. He stays long enough to guarantee she does start washing - albeit grumpily - before stumbling to his own warm tub. His first bath removes the grime; his second bath he lets himself soak in.

He’d underestimated how powerful her creation could be. Not that he assumed it would be _weak_ , exactly, but since the Sundering he has only ever been challenged by her: even Leviathan had been little more than a game. Titan had proved surprisingly tenacious.

He winces and puts a hand to his ribs; already his skin has turned a mottled shade of purple. How could he have expected the landslide to come out so suddenly? His Warrior’s quick eyes had seen what he did not, rescuing him before he plunged off the edge, but he’d still taken a hard hit to his torso - and an even harder hit to his pride.

Well - he won’t make that mistake again. The next time they journey to the Empty he shall keep his wits about him.

At least she has forgiven his comments about Zenos and family; the implications of mentioning the boy had hit him belatedly. Whether he wants them to or not, the actions of his past lives continue to send waves through his present. It seems for every hurt he learns to work through another dozen unearth themselves, layering regret over guilt over shame. 

It is hard not to hate the man he had become. 

Hades’s mental image of himself has always been one of pride and dignity, but confronting the person he became has destroyed that fairy tale. The closer he looks the more faults he discovers, resulting in a self-image so shattered he finds himself cringing away from mirrors lest he glimpse the self-loathing in his own golden eyes.

At his worst he knows death would have been easier. 

At his best he knows he does not deserve the easy path.

They want him to make amends, and he tries - gods, does he try - but the constant uphill battle has proven both discouraging and draining. For every little he helps it seems he is pushed back even further by new discoveries, by the distrust and hatred in the Scions’ eyes, and by his own thrice-damned guilt.

Despite it all his hero continues to love him - to fight for him, even in the face of her companions’ continued negativity and disbelief. Her strength and determination is the foundation he builds himself upon, though he doubts she understands how quickly everything could come crashing down.

Their argument earlier had rattled him far worse than he’d let on. It had been many long weeks since he’d been thrust into memories - and to deal with _those_ memories in particular? To come face-to-face with the pain and heartbreak they carry, the loss and desperation? To remember his firstborn and his first shreds of hope - his first slivers of doubt for Zodiark’s cause? 

To be forced to confront the harsh reality that the woman who claims his heart is likely to be the one to end his mortal line? 

It is much later in the evening when Hades drags himself up out of the tepid tub, wincing against the pain in his ribs. The colourful bruise is a strange addition to his torso; he is still not accustomed to the massive white scar that takes up the majority of his chest. He could easily modify this body to diminish the scar or rid himself of it completely, but he resists the temptation: a scar is a small burden compared to the loss others have suffered from his actions.

The Warrior of Light waits for him in their room in the Pendants, her shoulder against the wood of the window frame as she stares out over the land below. She wears one of his button-up shirts and nothing else; he cannot keep his gaze from straying over legs to the high glimpse of thigh under the hem. It is more a dress than a shirt on her small frame, but seeing her in his clothing awakens some base territorial part of his brain.

If only he wasn’t so weary -

He joins her at the window, wrapping an arm around her side as she shifts to lean against him. “Feeling better?”

“More like myself,” she admits. She holds a mug of something hot in both hands; it smells almost as enticing as she looks. “And you?”

“The pain is lessened.”

She tilts her head, her dark eyes meeting his. “The physical pain, yes - but how are you otherwise?”

“I -” He breaks eye contact. As tempted as he is to turn aside her concern with humour, he knows what her reaction will be. “I am not as bad as I have been.”

“But not as well as you could be.” Those dark eyes see far more than he wants them to. “I am certain Amaurot was not built in a day, Hades. Recovery need not be swift, but remember that we are in this together.”

“That is part of what worries me,” he says quietly, staring out at the dark sky and the pinpricks of stars. “How will my conscience react when I encourage my lover to kill my only remaining heir?”

She stiffens so quickly his tired muscles ache in response. It hurts when she takes a step away from him, but he cannot say he is truly surprised: his use of that word will not sit easily with her. He stays at the window, listening to her footsteps slowly recede - the soft sound of her mug resting against the dining table, followed by her low sigh, is almost worse than if she’d yelled.

“Varis doesn’t have to die.”

He snorts, hiding his cracking confidence behind disbelief. “So again you offer mercy? Your allies on the Source are unlikely to be so forgiving.”

“Then what would you have me do?”

Tearing his eyes from the night sky, he forces himself to look at her. Her hands rest on the table as she leans forward, head bowed low as her hair hides her face. The harsh line of her shoulders belies how tense she is; he cannot stop his lip from curling in a snarl of frustration. Is it not enough that he torments himself with these thoughts? Must he also drag her into his despair and misery?

“Kill him.” His voice is harsh in the silence. “Put an end to him and Garlemald. All I ask is that you leave me here.”

“Why?”

His hands curl into fists as his frustration flares, but he owes her this answer - he owes her far more, though starting with this one response is hard enough. Pride attempts to tie his tongue yet again. “Every day is already a battle. I wake wondering what god granted me clemency when the history of this star is marred by my actions - when the blood of millions coats my hands.” He holds up his palms, as clean as they could possibly be - the hands that held her at the beginning of time, and the hands that held his sons in the not-so-distant past - 

The hands that destroyed worlds.

“I cannot return to the Source. Not as I am - not with Varis and Elidibus there.”

“Do you fear them?”

Would that it were so simple. “I fear myself, hero. In attempting to prove myself a changed man - a better man, a man worthy of you and this life I have been gifted - I would ruin any chance of change should I raise my hand against both my blood and my eldest companion. Whether or not they stand against you and Eorzea, I cannot face them.”

“You _are_ a changed man.”

Though his heart soars to hear her say it, he knows simply speaking the words does not render them truthful. “I am already a murderer and monster - I will not add kinslayer and betrayer to my wealth of titles. I cannot.”

She finally turns to face him, her dark eyes sombre. “And if I kill them instead? Will your conscience allow what we have to continue?”

“I -” To touch her - to kiss her - to _lay_ with her - should that come to pass? “I do not know. Lahabrea and Zenos did not die by your hands. I have nothing to compare this to.” He stands straighter, meeting her gaze with a semblance of steel in his eyes. “We can only proceed as we are, and hope my guilt lies dormant.”

“Mayhap there exists a third path.”

“Optimism?” He finally allows himself a small smile, acknowledging her attempt to steer him towards happier thoughts. “You have delivered larger miracles in direr circumstances - but you can not hesitate. If you must strike the blow, do it. I will not ask you to stay your blade for the sake of myself - not when entire worlds depend on you.”

“I hesitated once,” she says, her eyes distant. “Never again.” Her eyes focus on him. “My conviction is certain; my goal remains the same. Should the time come I will not ask that you join me.”

Relief nearly renders him giddy, but he maintains his composure. He still does not know how he will react should she confront Varis and Elidibus, but that she understands his reasons for remaining behind bolsters his heart. “Thank you, hero.”

She moves to his side; her arms wrap around his waist even as her head hits his chest. He cannot hide his wince as she squeezes him; that damned bruise weakens him still.

“From Titan?” she asks, pulling back to rest one hand on his ribs. “You should have told me.”

“A minor hurt,” he says. “Merely flesh.”

“ _Your_ flesh.” Healing magic pulses between her palm and his side; the pain lessens almost immediately. “Foolish Hades.”

“I can only offer my apologies.”

Her eyes catch his as she leans back; his heart leaps into his throat as he sees that glint - that fire he recognizes, that heat that captivates him. “There is something more, I think, that I might take from you.”

“What would you have of me?”

Her hand moves from his side, cutting off her magic, but quickly finds its place cupping his ass. He arches an eyebrow at her forwardness - not because it is uncommon, but because he hadn’t thought either of them capable of expending the energy. “Tonight?”

It is her turn to snort. “Gods, no. I’d fall asleep before I could bend you over.”

“Bend me -” He swallows hard as the connotation hits home. “Hero…”

“Hades.” 

The look in her eyes brooks no course for argument; he can only lick dry lips as his panicking mind scurries for something clever to say. Alas, nothing comes to him; he nods like a simpleton, hoping she does not notice his sudden clammy hands nor his racing heartbeat.

Fear? Excitement? The sudden and inexplicable urge to vomit, run for the hills, and laugh like a madman the entire way? 

“Tomorrow, then?” His voice is much higher than he wants it to be; like a lovestruck youth, nerves render him shaky.

“Tomorrow,” she agrees. She understands the emotions raging through him - the desire, the fear, the pride warring with lust - but giving him a day to prepare will not make this easier. “Any requests for when the time comes?”

Hades manages to gather his scattered thoughts to pluck at the shoulder of her shirt - _his_ shirt - and pinch it between his fingers. “This.”

Her forehead furrows in confusion. “This?”

“Mhmm.” His voice somehow comes out low, as though his insides aren’t running in circles. He leans closer, watching her eyes widen as her lips part, and traces the line of her jaw with one delicate finger. “Wear it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: working from home will be great! I'll get so much writing done!  
> Also me: I live in Zoom now
> 
> Short chapter to bridge a gap! Thanks to everyone for reading, commenting, leaving kudos! You great.


	3. And Find My Center

_“What are we now?” he asks quietly, when it is clear she is waiting for him to speak. “Jailor and captive?”_

_“Better jailor than murderer.”_

_“And?” He refuses to be waylaid or distracted, refuses to be caught in word games. Recognizing she has the power to refute him is both terrifying and freeing - he will push, if he must push, and he will ask the damn question if she needs to hear it. “Are we more than that?”_

_“Haven’t we always been?”_

*

“Hades.”

He blinks. The Exarch stands not far from him, his hands on his hips and a frown on his face. There is a disorienting moment where Hades cannot remember what they were doing or why he is there - until he looks at the table in front of him and sees the books and parchments spread across the surface.

“Ah.” They had been discussing returning the Scions to the Source - souls and spells and safety precautions - when Hades’s mind had detached itself from the dreary, repetitive conversation to travel down a far more compelling path. “My apologies - I fear yesterday’s excursion is distracting even now.”

“I see.”

Hades rolls his eyes at the layered disappointment and judgement, simultaneously letting his head droop to his shoulder as though exasperated. “The next time our well-meaning hero summons a veritable primal in your backyard I shall let _you_ deal with the consequences.”

The Exarch doesn’t even blink. “Would that I could - there is much I would give to fight at the Warrior’s side once again. Alas that fate has set me on a different path.”

Is that _shame_ worming its way through Hades’s belly? He grimaces and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I apologize again, Exarch. That was undeserving.”

“Apology accepted, forgiven, and forgotten. I do believe we should break for the day, however; I would rather not push you further and have us miss any details.”

If working with the Exarch doesn’t kill him from boredom it will surely kill him with guilt. “I shall see you on the morrow?”

“Two days hence. I cannot forget my duties to the Crystarium and it’s people, and for now the Scions are not desperate to return.”

Neither of them mention that they are well-aware of a last-minute solution; it is the uncomfortable reality everyone dances around. G’raha’s death is not something any of them seriously consider. 

Not yet, at least.

“Rest well,” the Miqo’te says as Hades leaves the Ocular - but Hades can only bite his tongue. He closes the door behind him and slouches forward, sighing as he runs a hand through his hair. 

He cannot rest. Try as he might, his sleep the night before had been a frustrating trial of patience from which he had risen exhausted, bitter, and regretful - he had tossed and turned, repeatedly punching his pillow into shapes he knew would be no more comfortable. If the Warrior noticed his discomfort she had given no sign; as far as Hades could tell she slept soundly past dawn.

A part of him feels like a giddy child awaiting a long-desired gift, but there is worry there, too. Excitement wars with that damned section of his consciousness that cannot think beyond his pride, that small part of him that argues against submission.

It isn’t weakness. It doesn’t make him less powerful or foolish; it doesn’t diminish any of his achievements - both the ones he’s proud of and the ones he’d rather forget - or change his hero’s opinion of him.

Still - _still_ \- he cannot help thinking of their words when he first woke after Amaurot: though he has little in common with most criminals on the First there are constant reminders that he is not a free man, that he is watched at all times, that his actions directly relate to whether or not he remains among the living - 

That the Warrior of Light will dictate what happens next.

Whether he wants to or not, he continues to care about her companions’ opinions: these are the people he will work with for the foreseeable future. If they should consider him bound to her by _force_ \- 

It shouldn’t matter. _He_ knows she cannot coerce him. _She_ knows he goes to her bed eagerly. If the Scions think he plays her games because he must, is that not their own mistake? It is not his responsibility to spell out every aspect of their relationship - a relationship that would, in any other circumstances, be private!

Hades grimaces as he exits the Crystal Tower. A mess of swirling clouds cover the sky, reflecting the turmoil within in a poetic symmetry Hades acknowledges but does not appreciate. Rain falls lazily but consistently: with no wind it is a steady downpour, soaking every poor soul who ventures beyond cover. Rather than deal with soggy clothes and damp hair he teleports from the top of the stairs to the depths of Amaurot, appearing instantly on the Capitol’s terrace.

Amaurot is no longer the refuge he wants it to be. Where once it had been a beacon of familiarity and comfort it has slowly turned into a symbol for everything he could not forgive, everything he could not move past, everything he could not let go. Standing on the other side of tempering, his recreated Amaurot is a prison he made himself: a relic he held onto for far too long. Returning brings painful memories and sharp nostalgia; they are emotions he knows he is not quite ready to face head-on.

The temptation to tear it down - every brick, every tree, every recreated soul - weighs against his hero’s love for the place. While he cannot walk through the streets without regret and shame clogging his heart she occasionally takes time to explore. He knows she is trying to dredge up any glimmer of old memory, any sliver of her lost life, and he cannot deny her that.

The only reason he has to return is the privacy it allows him: unlike anywhere else in Norvrandt he is guaranteed to be alone.

Standing on the Capitol’s terrace, Hades stuffs his hands into his trouser pockets and slouches. The Scions are not merely judging him for his bedroom games but the pains he has brought to them and every other soul. They do not trust his submission and do not understand his commitment; he is still Emet-Selch in their eyes.

He takes his left hand out of his pocket and stares at his bare fingers. 

Is he not still Emet-Selch in his own eyes?

*

_“Hades, you are overthinking the entire situation.”_

_He doesn’t mean to lash out, but frustration and anxiety shorten his temper considerably. “Have I not asked you to refrain from calling me that?”_

_Hythlodaeus freezes, one hand paused as it stirs his tea. The man’s white mask slowly tilts to one side. “You take this very seriously.”_

_Hades rises and walks away, sucking his front teeth as he attempts to calm himself. Of all souls Hythlodaeus deserves his negative attitude the least. “Apologies, old friend.”_

_He hears the cup and saucer tinkle against the surface of the small table at Hythldaeus’s elbow, followed by the creak of the old couch as the man rises._

_“Old as I am, and friend that I am, would you not trust me to help you?”_

_“You are not of the Convocation,” Hades says, still averting his eyes. “This is our problem -”_

_“This is everyone’s problem! The Final Days are almost upon us and you believe I will sit idly by like some craven fool? I am a man of Amaurot, Hades, and I would be a man of the Convocation had my choices differed! Does fear blind you as it blinds Lahabrea?”_

_“I am not that idiot,” Hades snarls, his guilt finally outmatched by indignation._

_“Then speak with me! Emet-Selch you may be, but before that - before anything else - you are my friend!” Hythlodaeus suddenly sighs; when next he speaks his voice is much quieter. “And I would aid my friend as best I can.”_

_“I know you would.” Hades closes his eyes. “I know.” The words are on his tongue - the admittance, the reveal, the hideous and terrifying truth - but fear wins out. “Elidibus has forbidden us -”_

_“Damn him.”_

_Hades finally turns, shocked into meeting his friend’s cold, furious eyes. Even behind his mask they radiate anger. “You cannot mean -”_

_“I mean what I say and I say what I mean. Damn him, damn the Convocation, and damn you - Emet-Selch.” The title hurts, its unexpected use making him wince. “Your people stand ready, willing, and eager to help - to forestall this catastrophe if we cannot stop it! We are begging you to allow us to aid you yet with every turn you deny us!”_

_“Better you are denied than dead!” He flinches back, cursing under his breath as he turns to move to the study window. Rain pelts the coloured panes, though the glass is thick enough that he does not hear it; he hears nothing but the small pops of the hearthfire behind its grate and Hythlodaeus’s quiet, controlled breaths._

_“What is the Convocation planning, Hades?”_

_“We haven’t decided,” he says, a half-truth that is easier than explaining._

_“Why not?”_

_Unbidden, his right hand clasps his left. His fingers grasp at his ring, at the blue-gemmed band that is his lone piece of jewelry. Hythlodaeus, quick as he is, interprets the movement correctly._

_“She disagrees, doesn’t she?”_

_“For now.”_

_“Hades -”_

_“Please!” His voice cracks and he flinches into himself, biting his lip as a torrent of emotions swirl within his chest. He forces himself to regain control. “I beg you, old friend - what actions I take in future days I cannot do as Hades. If I am to retain any semblance of myself - any semblance of control - I must rise to the title bestowed upon me.”_

_Hythlodaeus quietly moves to the window, stopping a mere fulm from his side. Hades risks a glance in his direction, but the anger in his friend’s eyes is gone. Sorrow replaces it. “I have never been one for titles, but I expect I will come to dislike yours far more than I already do.”_

_“I suspect you will,” he agrees heavily. “As I also suspect you will not be the only one.” Hades’s gaze strays to the ring on his finger as his thoughts return to the woman who wears its twin - the woman who, he was told, needed a night away from him to organize her thoughts. “She wishes you had not passed this position on to me, you know.”_

_Hythlodaeus snorts. “Me? As Emet-Selch? It remains as bad an idea now as it was when they offered it.” All frivolity vanishes in an instant. “No, my friend, it has been - and always will be - you who bears that burden. If I call you Hades, know it is only out of the desire to remind you where you came from, for every day you journey further and further from that point. I cannot help but wonder how far you will go.”_

_“I am right here,” he protests stubbornly, though he understands the implications. “There is nowhere else for me to go.”_

_“That is what worries me: a creature cornered turns to desperation. The Hades I know would keep a level head, but Emet-Selch? I cannot be certain.”_

_“I will do as I must,” Hades says quietly. “Anything I can to save this star.”_

_“And who will save you?”_

*

Hades stares at his hand - at the ringless finger - and shudders. He is very glad Hythlodaeus cannot see him now. He doubts his friend would look kindly upon his actions, though he must admit that Hythlodaeus could not have done what he had done. For good or ill, had the other man become Emet-Selch the world would have ended with Amaurot.

Hades had possessed the power to make the hard choice. Whether that redeems him or damns him he knows not, but some small portion of his guilt ebbs away. 

Better a ravaged, shattered world than annihilation. Better for life to continue in any form than to end completely. 

The first two sacrifices he can rationalize - he _must_ rationalize - but the Rejoinings? The Calamities that decimated the Source? Their mistake with the Thirteenth?

The executioner cannot hang the murderer’s blade - but being Zodiark’s pawn does not absolve Hades of his own culpability. He knew the result of his actions: he knew how many people would die, and decided the end worth the cost - 

Though the price was not his to pay.

What is in a name? History, certainly, but to attribute a name any sort of prophetic connotation is as fanciful as believing in the cards the astrologians draw: whether he calls himself Hades, Emet-Selch, or Solus he remains the same man. Neither his crimes nor his potential change in any way. In the end it boils down to perspective: the Scions can only see him as Emet-Selch; the Warrior of Light cannot see him as Solus; he personally wants to return to the Hades he used to be but - 

He never _stopped_ being anyone. There is no old-Hades to return to; there is no layer to peel back in the hopes of revealing the blissful young fool he once was. The name he wears will neither damn him nor redeem him: his actions are all he has left.

So, then - his submission to the Warrior of Light does not belie who he was as Emet-Selch nor harken back to a false notion of “true self” prior to the Sundering. He is who he is, though he doubts that will foster any more good will than he’s already managed to scavenge. 

He once called himself a wolf among lambs, yet since his fall above Amaurot he is the meekest he has ever been both within the bedroom and out of it. It is not a question of strength - his power returned weeks earlier - but of submission to something else entirely.

In accepting his new role on the First Hades had also accepted the chains of guilt and remorse - and had taken those chains to require a level of passivity verging on docile. While he settled into this new, untempered life it had not bothered him; in truth it had completely escaped his attention until their nights spent in Ishgard. Their games of submission began to change, requiring a level of dependency they had previously avoided - yet as he continues to relinquish more and more control to his hero he fails to move beyond his passivity outside of the bedroom. The Exarch still dictates how each day is spent; the Scions continue to disrespect him and his love for their Warrior; the world at large sees him as little more than the Warrior’s lover.

And while _yes_ , that is a title he had claimed himself, it is not what he chooses to let define him. 

Hades holds out a hand. Black and purple flames burn easily in his palm, a miniscule testament to the oceans of power at his fingertips.

The most powerful soul alive - save, perhaps, Elidibus - and he is shackled by _remorse_? What fool allows his power to pass untapped - to sit idle when he is fully capable of setting this entire world on its head? What fool allows complacency to fester like a weed, rooting down into his very core until nothing remains but fear and self-loathing?

What fool allows his soul to be smothered once finally set free?

He is Hades, as he is Emet-Selch, as he is Solus and every other life he has laid claim to on the Source and its shattered reflections. He is a sorcerer, a member of the Convocation, one of three survivors of the Sundering and the only Ascian to survive confronting the Warrior of Light - 

And he will not live his life in chains.

Curling his fingers into a fist, the flames vanish from his palm - and a singular, heady hunger wakens inside of him. If he searches he can sense the Warrior’s soul to the east of him - southern Lakeland, he hazards. He has no idea why she’s there and he does not care: in that moment nothing matters except finding her.

He vanishes from Amaurot and reappears on one of Sullen’s chain of islands. Some of the Scions are gathered with the Exarch on one of the many docks, but his eyes are drawn immediately to the Warrior of Light. She sees him before the rest do; a small frown furrows her brow even as her head tilts to one side.

“Go on,” she says to her companions, shooing them towards land. “I’ll catch up with you after dinner.”

They pass below him, some shooting him strange looks - but he returns them all with a small, secretive smile. The Exarch in particular pauses a moment, seeming almost tempted to speak, but he moves on with a look of mistrust and worry. When no one remains but he and his Warrior Hades finally moves onto the dock, slipping his hands into his pockets as he glides towards her.

She sees the change in him before he reaches her, sees the look in his eyes before he comes within arms’ reach. Her eyes narrow and her posture shifts - a subtle change in her stance, a widening of the hips, her hands opening - just in case she needs to cast.

“G’raha mentioned you had the afternoon to yourself.” Her voice tries for normalcy, but there’s a waver she cannot quite hide. “Where did you take yourself to?”

“Amaurot,” he says, halting in front of her. Her hand moves to push him back but he catches her wrist and pulls her against his chest. She smells of fresh air and aether, with a dark lingering scent that he can only describe as one completely her own. Intoxicating as it is, it spurs on his hunger. “I decided my time is not best spent alone.”

Her dark eyes search his; worry, confusion, and the smallest seed of anger play across her face. “Did we not make plans for this evening?”

“You made plans,” he agrees, and his other hand takes her chin in his fingers and tilts it upwards. “I am making new ones.”

“Hades -”

“No.” He smiles, watching her confusion grow by leaps and bounds, and lowers his head to kiss her. A delicate, gentle kiss, it brings a flush of colour to her cheeks. He cannot keep the smile out of his voice. “You only say ‘Hades’ when you want me to stop.”

She freezes. Her confusion shifts to calculation as her eyes narrow, as she searches his face for some answer or clue - some indication of why he has suddenly changed - but she understands his implication clear enough. There is still resistance in her stance and anger in her eyes: she does not appreciate the change without forewarning. “And what makes you think I don’t want you to stop?”

He shifts his hips against hers. Her pupils widen and her lips part as his cock presses against her, but she does not pull away. “Say my name if you want me to leave.”

Silence. Her teeth hold hard against her bottom lip; he can feel her chest rise and fall as she struggles to breath. “Now? Here?”

“Now.” He releases her chin to raise a hand; her eyes widen as she recognizes his gesture but she cannot stop him before he snaps his fingers. They appear a moment later in her room in the Pendants. “Here.”

She shivers beneath his hands. Her tongue darts out to wet dry lips; he refrains from leaning forward to chase it with his own. “Before - before anything, Hades, please - you are well?”

That she thinks to ask…! Lust and love mingle and he cannot fight temptation any longer, meeting his lips to hers. She moans into him as he walks her backwards, barely registering their movement until her back hits the far wall and they come up for air. 

“I am well,” he says quietly, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Better than I have been in many, many years.” His voice drops. “Let me show you.”

Her hands are already playing with the buttons on his shirt. He lowers his mouth to her neck - tasting, biting, sucking until her moans fill the room. One hand slips between her legs as the other holds her waist in place. 

“Oh, gods -”

He laughs, allowing himself a moment to enjoy the desire in her voice before he takes his hands off her and spins her around. He pulls her arms up the wall, spreading them up and out, while his knees shift to part her legs. Her cheek presses against the brick as his magic binds her there, keeping her limbs locked in place. Another snap of his fingers and her clothing - and his - vanishes.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

He presses against her backside, his cock hard against her ass, and feels her try to use the wall as leverage to push against him. He grins and curls one hand around her neck.

“Beg,” he croons, lowering his mouth to her ear. His other hand snakes over her hip before descending along her belly - stopping mere ilms from where she wants him most. “Do not tell me you’ve forgotten how.”

“Just - touch me - !”

He presses harder against her back as his fingers tighten around her neck. “My darling hero - you will be _taking_ orders tonight, not giving them. I expect you to do as you're told, understood?”

She twists her head back so her dark eyes catch his, alight with desire and lust and a glint of heat. That challenge is there, waiting, wanting to take control, but he watches her eyes shift, her expression change - watches his dominant woman take on the mask of submissive, and his desire climbs in response. Her response is a breathy gasp. “Yes.”

“Yes…?”

“Yes, Emet-Selch.”

He grins with sleepy, hooded eyes.

“Good girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My note to myself for this chapter was “Hades is not an onion”. Quality content.
> 
> Thanks for reading! The final chapter has been a doozy to edit so with luck I'll get that ridiculousness posted sometime this week.


	4. And Let Her Peg Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After many, many requests...I have finally found the words. If those new tags are not your thing, you can read the first part and then ctrl F * to zoom to the plot at the end.

The Warrior of Light rises early the next morning. Eager as she is to meet with the Exarch and some of the Scions, she pauses only to give Hades a long, lingering kiss - a kiss that hints at the heat awaiting him later that evening - before hurrying downstairs for breakfast. He stays beneath the bedcovers, watching the sunlight cascade over the floor until it begins to climb up the bed - and even then he merely rolls onto his back, raising a hand to push his disheveled hair back from his face.

As good as the sex had been, the confidence that comes from wresting back control is an even higher high. While he understands that his bedroom role will change depending on their needs and moods, the control he has over _himself_ \- his own life, his dreams and hopes, his entire destiny - no longer seems an elusive, whimsical thing. No matter what the Scions plan - no matter what his hero does - no matter how Elidibus reacts - 

Hades made his choice. Pretending to be a simple man only shackles him to a future he has no interest in. Whether the Exarch and the Scions want it or not, Hades will not pretend.

Not anymore.

The sun has slunk over the entire bed by the time Hades rouses himself from idleness. He slides into his usual black pants and button-up shirt, immediately rolling the sleeves to his elbows before slipping on shoes and making for the door. He isn’t quite sure how he will spend the day - his hero made it clear he is not needed for her escapades that morning - but he assumes he’ll find some means of passing time.

Hades only manages to take a step away from the Warrior of Light’s door before a hand grabs his elbow. He doesn’t resist as he’s spun and slammed back against the wall, as another hand forces his shoulder against the brick - but he cannot help leering when he sees the gunblade pointed at his chest. He tilts his head downwards, looking up through his bangs at the furious pale face of Lahabrea’s puppet.

“What did you do?” Thancred hisses. “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing she did not want,” Hades says, his voice high in a sing-song of mock innocence. “Nothing she did not ask for.”

“There are bruises.” The Hyur leans harder, putting more pressure on Hades’s shoulder. His voice shakes with rage. “Big fucking bruises up both arms and around her neck. You’ve never done _that_ before.”

“Mayhap I used to hide them better.” He pauses a moment. “Was she displeased at breakfast?”

“Don’t even try that route,” Thancred growls. “She wouldn’t tell us a thing - you know perfectly well she’s too bloody terrified of you to speak -”

Hades feels some small chain of self-control shatter, but the next few seconds are too hectic to bother with remorse. His left hand slams into the side of the barrel, forcing the gunblade to the right as his body shifts leftwards. His right fist connects with Thancred’s nose before the other man can react; the Hyur’s head snaps back even as his finger pulls the trigger. The bullet ricochets off Hades’s invisible shield, flying high into the dark recesses of the Pendants’ stairwell, but before Thancred can fire again Hades forces the barrel upwards in a quick jerking motion before yanking the weapon down and out of the Hyur’s grip. Disarmed and bleeding, Thancred stares at him with one hand over his gushing nose.

“Shit.”

“Indeed.” Hades drops the gun and moves forward faster than Thancred can backpedal, grabbing the shoulders of the other man’s jacket in both hands so he can properly spin him around and slam him against the wall. As tempting as it is to punch him Hades holds that urge in check: whether he feels justified or not will matter little when his Warrior finds out about this. “Are you normally this idiotic and impulsive, or is it only when the women you care for are threatened?"

“Fuck you.”

“That’s this evening’s game and you’re not invited - though if you keep this up you may give her reason enough to hit you, too.”

Thancred’s face flushes scarlet, but he stops fighting back. His hands lower to his sides, open and vulnerable, but rage and embarrassment glints in his eyes.

A dangerous combination at the best of times, and this is certainly not that. 

Taking a deep breath, Hades attempts to force out his thoughts without slamming the man into the wall with every word. “Let me say this as simply as possible: she does not fear me. She has no reason to fear me. There is nothing she could do that would ever - _ever_ \- make me raise a hand to her in anger.” With every word Hades leans a little closer, inching towards the Hyur’s steadily-bleeding nose. “I owe her _everything_. What could I possibly gain by hurting her?”

“Revenge.”

Cold, terrifying fury courses through Hades veins. He’d killed men for less - but that had been _then_ , when he’d been blinded by loss. When depression has twisted the very morals upon which he’d once helped rule his people. 

When Zodiark had rationalized each death and Hades allowed it, believing his god more reliable than his own cracked conscience. 

He backs away from the rage, from the power swirling round him - from the possibility of something dark and devastating and damning - but what remains hurts him regardless: a small but significant shattering of his heart. 

He never thought he’d be _friends_ with the Scions, but for Thancred to believe him capable of playing with the Warrior’s heart only to _break_ her -

He bows his head. His words catch in his throat and he doesn’t know where to go from here, doesn’t know what to say or do. What is left? What remains except the truth Thancred does not want to hear?

A painful truth for a painful accusation? Whether or not Thancred wants it, he deserves no less.

“I grace her bed by her own invitation,” Hades says finally, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “I play my part because she asked me too. I am not being clever or crude when I tell you your Warrior of Light enjoys being hurt - and I am not being insincere when I say I would not do the things I do if she felt differently.” He pulls back, taking his hands off the Hyur as he moves away. 

Thancred stays where he is, only moving to raise a hand to his nose. His eyes remain locked on the floor; his face is a shade of pink that is somewhat better than the furious red flush he’d had moments earlier. “You want me to turn a blind eye to her pain?”

“I know she does.” Hades narrows his eyes, debating, before adding, “If it is any help, she gives as good as she gets.”

Thancred‘s expression changes to disgust. “That is not the consolation you think it is.”

“You cannot say I did not make an attempt.”

The Hyur snorts, opens his mouth - and closes it, shaking his head. Whatever his retort might have been, it leaves traces of humour in the man’s eyes: humour Hades has seldom witnessed directed towards him. 

A thawing of the ice, perhaps? While not camaraderie, there is at least a distinct lack of the hatred he usually sees in Thancred’s eyes. Inspired by a sliver of hope and his own, boosted confidence he shrugs, opening his arms to either side.

”You may hit me in return, should it negate some of the ill will between us.”

Thancred shoots him a withering look, though the power of it is somewhat lost behind the blood staining his nose, chin, and jacket. “I don’t need reparations when my ass is handed to me.”

“Suit yourself. It was merely -”

Thancred’s fist catches him round the jaw; Hades’s head swings to one side before he freezes, blinking repeatedly as flares of pain shoot up his face and down his neck. Slowly, carefully, he pats his fingers against his sore skin, working his jaw up and down to guarantee everything is still in place and functional.

“On second thought, it would be rude to turn down an offer.” The Hyur steps back, shaking out his hand. Another hint of humour flashes in his eyes before he buries it, turning back into the grim Hyur Hades knows best. “What now, Ascian?”

“The Warrior,” Hades says, tilting his head back and forth as he wiggles his jaw. He isn’t even angry - not that he would tell Thancred, of course, but he admires the punch far more than the initial threat. “Where is she?”

“She should be with G’raha and the others at the palace in Lakeland.”

“And why are you not with them? Other than your desire to confront me, of course.”

“I have work to do in the Empty.” The Hyur pauses. There is something else there - Hades watches Thancred watching him, neither quite sure if they should trust the other. “Would you be interested in scouting more of the bleached wastes? We’re not messing with primals until the Warrior’s free to help, but I’d rather make sure there’s nothing like Eden out there waiting for us.”

As small a chore as it might be, it is not only a welcome surprise but also a task Hades is uniquely suited to. Who better to search for creatures of Light than a Herald of Darkness? 

And if it means Thancred might begin to trust him...

He holds out a hand. The Hyur stares at him a moment before taking it and yanking Hades forward, forcing them to within an ilm of each other. Smears of blood darken Thancred’s nose, cheeks, mouth, and chin, but the bleeding seems to have stopped. 

“This doesn’t mean I like you,” Thancred says quietly. “This doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.”

“What does this mean?” Hades does not resist; he is genuinely curious.

“It means hating you festers like a wound I refuse to clean. If I’m going to drown in bitterness I’d rather it not be because of _you_ , if you take my meaning.” Thancred flashes his teeth. “You’re not worth that.”

“I’m relieved someone finally thinks so.”

Thancred steps back, giving his hand one firm shake before dropping it. “I’ll meet you at Eden - give me a bit of time to warn the others, eh?”

“Of course.” Hades watches the other man walk away, raising an eyebrow as the Hyur raises a hand over his head and gives a casual twirl of his hand - a careless goodbye wave, a familiar flick of the wrist that makes Hades click his tongue in disapproval.

He does it better.

*

The Warrior of Light returns late that evening; the sun has already set by the time she makes her way to their shared room. She is only a few fulms past the door when Hades turns to face her, watching her eyes widen and then narrow, her head angle downwards and her hands clench.

“What happened to your face?”

Hades raises a hand to delicately run two fingers down the side of his jaw, as though he doesn’t feel the constant throb of bruised skin. The look on her face makes his heart skip; some part of him feels like a lesser wolf offering itself to the alpha.

The urge to bare his throat is overwhelming. 

He arches an eyebrow. “You might say I have behaved badly.”

“Have you?” She rests her weight on her back foot, crossing her arms over her chest. “After I played nice with you last night?”

He grins lazily and tilts his head to one side. His sleepy-eyed smile is a dare, a provocation she will not ignore. “Are you going to punish me, Warrior?”

Heat flickers in his hero’s dark eyes, heat and something else, something that shoots a bolt of desire through his core. She changes her stance, planting both feet firmly on the ground as she juts her chin forward. “Come here.”

He stalks forward and stops a handbreadth from her. Easy as it would be to reach out and touch, he will not risk that spark of anger that flitters behind the heat.

“On your knees.”

He sinks wordlessly, his gaze now level with her stomach. One of her hands comes up, palm down and fingers slightly curled - and suddenly not empty. A length of white chain curls into her closed fingers, a chain that is attached to a collar pressing itself around Hades’s neck.

Her hand jerks upwards, forcing his chin up. Their eyes meet and any vestiges of the submissive women he toyed with last night are gone, lost behind the power and control in those captivating, turbulent eyes. 

Submission - supplication - surrendering his authority and spurning both pride and power - 

It is not weakness. It never was and never will be. This is not something he gives her - not a part of him he dredges up for her amusement, nor a role he dons when she demands it - but something that has always been hers to take. Once, her power had been greater than his, and the potential is still there whether she acknowledges it or not. The discordance between his love for her and his shame in submission is a mistake he was foolish to capitulate to.

To play her games - to stand equal to the Warrior of Light and Darkness, to present both challenge and temptation, to be the one she invites into not only her bed but her heart - is so far from shame he feels ridiculous for thinking so.

Honour, not humiliation. Love, not fear. Pain…

A mischievous grin twists his face. She raises an eyebrow, lifting the chain to pull his collar tighter, and lowers her face to his.

He can deal with pain.

“Something amuses you?”

“Of course not,” he replies demurely, toning down his grin. He holds his hands out in front of him, wrists together as if cuffed, and tries to ignore his cock straining against his pants. “Am I to be leashed and bound?”

“Not like that.” She steps backwards unexpectedly, pulling the chain forward and down as she does. Hades catches himself on his hands, gasping to pull air into his lungs, and by the time he clears his head he discovers the chain is now connected to a loop of aether jutting from the floor. Try as he might, he cannot raise his head higher than his shoulders.

Tethered on all fours. 

He swallows hard, watching her heavy black boots pace back and forth in front of him. Excitement rages through him, electrifying his limbs and tightening his lungs. The excitement shifts as she stops near his shoulder and he sees one of her hands. Held tight within her fingers is a leatherbound rod, slightly shorter than a fulm, and from the end of that rod…

Long, thin strips of leather, dozens of them, cascading and dangling downwards. Her short-nailed fingers tighten around the rod and she steps away from him, taking herself - and her tool - out of his field of vision.

“You’ve misbehaved,” she says, the sound of her boots receding. “You know I can’t have that.”

“My apologies,” he replies, his cultured voice hoarse. He cannot tell exactly where she is in the room, cannot discern if she is behind him or beside him or -

She snaps her fingers and his clothes are gone. He shivers against the suddenly-cold air, his muscles constricting at the drop in temperature - and grits his teeth as the tips of her fingers trace the length of his torso in the direction of his shoulders. She stops in front of him again; the chain and collar prevents him from seeing any higher than her still-dressed waist.

“Do you know what this is?”

He stares at the flogger in her hands, at the leather strips dangling against her thighs. “I do.”

“Apologies are insufficient. If you’re willing to brawl in the hallways I feel it only justified I take a little more from you.” Her next words are slow and tantalizingly deep. “Punishment, Hades.”

He remains silent, blinking repeatedly at the ground. He knows not what to name the feeling inside him - lust? Desire? Fear? This particular game is new, her chosen tool one he’s never used himself, and no matter what comes after there is still that touch of worry.

Hot breath against his ear makes him shiver. “You will keep count.”

Those boots recede again, trailing the length of him until he knows she is behind him, knows she stands with feet planted firmly on both sides of his legs, knows that leather rod is in her hands and his bare skin has no protection - 

He’s panting already. His excited, staggered breathing fills the room with sound and he ducks his head, lowering chin to chest as he attempts to contain himself. His gaze strays downwards - past his bare, scarred chest, his hard cock begging for any touch - any small, gods-given touch - and past his thighs. He can see her legs, watches one leg shift back a step, and then he closes his eyes and grits his teeth - 

_Crack._

His mouth opens, soundless. A sharp but fleeting pain tingles up the left side of his ass - not as bad as it could be, but not something he can dismiss, either.

“One.”

_Crack._

The right side this time. Another smattering of pain.

“Two.”

_Crack._

He curls his hand into a fist and smashes it into the floor, breathing hard and fast. The pain is heightened now, the flogger touching skin already razed from the first hit. 

“Three.”

_Crack._

“Four.”

By eight he’s openly panting; by fifteen he cannot hold back his groans. His cock throbs below him, jerking with each hit, and his excitement has begun to dribble to the floor. Nothing matters but the leather against his skin and his own voice: low, controlled, droning out numbers as his arousal grows.

_Crack._

“Twenty.”

A pause - has she finished? - before a cool, wet finger slips between his cheeks. He gasps and all of his muscles tense as that finger presses in - deeper - _deeper_ \- sliding down until his entire body vibrates with pleasure. Just as he begins to feel accustomed to it - 

_Crack._

“Fuck,” he gasps, and shakes his head back and forth to try to clear the haze. “Twenty-one.”

“Don’t lose the count, dear villain.” Her voice is molten, honey mixed with a fire so hot his knees begin to shake. “We would not want to start again, would we?”

“No -”

_Crack._

“- we wouldn’t,” he growls, his teeth clamped together. “Twenty-two.” The pain tingles all over now, a wave that rushes through him with every hit. 

A second finger follows the first and he groans, his legs unwittingly thrusting backwards to force her even deeper. She acquiesces, pumping her two fingers steadily back and forth, and it takes every ounce of his self-control to remember to count.

At thirty his entire body shakes, driven half-mad by desire and pain - what he wouldn’t give for release, for a soft touch, for a little more pressure in the right place - 

Her fingers slip free, leaving a vacuum of pleasure that only highlights the tingling pain still spreading up his ass and back. He lets his head drop as he focuses on breathing, on regaining a moment of composure, and because he isn’t listening he misses the sound of her boots receding, misses her barefoot return, misses everything until - 

Soft hands against his hips, soft lips against his skin, the gentlest feather of touch. 

“You’ll be good, won’t you, Hades?” She’s behind him again. “You’ll behave?”

“I will, I will, I promise I will.” He’s babbling, but damn if it isn’t hard to focus! He can barely put together a thought, let alone a complete sentence. 

“You want me?”

“No one but you.”

“You’re going to count again for me, understood? Count to ten, Ascian - slowly.”

He blinks at the floor, confusion warring with the need to follow orders, and does as she says. “One.”

Her hands leave his hips.

“Two.”

Her fingers slide over raw skin, making him shiver again - torn halfway between pain and pleasure, he cannot say if the shakes in his legs are nerves or excitement. He closes his eyes, shutting out the hard floor beneath him and the cold air raising bumps along his skin.

“Three.”

Her bare skin is suddenly against him, her upper thighs resting against his ass.

“Four.”

Her hands shift, adjusting, and then -

“F-five…”

Not fingers, no - something far thicker and more solid shifts against his ass.

“Six…”

He locks his limbs and breathes hard through his nose. He knows what comes next, as he knows the word he could say to stop it - 

“Seven…”

Fear? For the unknown, yes, for the sensation that could deliver pain as well as pleasure, but he tells himself she has done this before. She knows what she’s doing - and she would never, _ever_ hurt him without meaning to.

“Eight.”

Stronger now. The fear is pushed aside, washed away, drowned beneath desire and need and over everything else _love_ for this woman who dares play with him - this woman who challenges him, baits him, forces him further than he’s ever gone - 

“Nine.”

She shifts behind him, using her hands to help her as she slowly - glacially - moves forward. While her fingers may have slid in easily this new toy stretches, spreads, forces him to shift - lubricated or not, it is not the simple fit he hopes it would be.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, slamming his fist into the floor once, twice, three times. On the third his own power flows through his fist and into the floor; the entire building shakes as aether shifts the foundation.

“Hades.” A clear warning not to do _that_ again, followed by her hand suddenly sliding over his thigh to wrap around his cock. “Relax.”

Relax, she says, and he knows the wisdom in that even as he wants to push away - pull away - _run_ away - but he knows he wants this far more. He closes his eyes and focuses on her hand, pulling and squeezing around his cock, and slowly allows his muscles to loosen.

“The count, Ascian.”

Hades takes a shuddery breath. Close. So intensely close. Though she remains in charge, she leaves this small power with him. The more she strokes him the higher his desire rises, surging past every other sensation until he can focus on nothing else. He would come in her hand if she allowed him, but he wants more.

He wants to see this through.

“Ten.”

Pushing herself forward as she pulls his hips back, she sheaths her cock inside him. 

_Gods…!_

It’s big, bigger than he expected, filling him completely. There is an undeniable moment when he cannot help but reconsider - _too_ big? - but the longer she’s there the better it feels. She gives him time to adjust, rubbing her hands over his hips and cock as he shivers under her, but it’s an allowance he doesn’t need.

“Please.” It’s a groan, a whine, a breathy single syllable of sound he never thought he could utter. With that barrier crossed - with _every_ barrier crossed - it brings down the rest of his walls. “Please, hero - _please_ fuck me.”

“My villain,” she murmurs. “Since you ask so nicely -”

She thrusts, slowly at first, giving him a chance to grow accustomed to the feeling. What was initially cold to the touch warms quickly, friction creating heat until all he can focus on is the sensation of being filled, over and over and over. He wants it deeper - wants it harder - wants more - 

_So ask for it, fool._

“Please -” He breaks to groan as pleasure courses through him. “ _Faster_.”

“Oh?” She picks up her speed and he can hear it now, the slap of skin against skin. “Does my villain enjoy cock in his perfect, tight ass?”

“Oh, _gods,_ yes.” 

“Happy to oblige,” she says in a breathy murmur, and then she _really_ starts to fuck him. He claws at the floor as his back arches, as he propels himself backward to take even more of her. She’s taunting him, pressing him onwards, and all he can do is curse with every thrust - with every sensation as she hits that spot within him, that place that makes his head spin and his lungs contract and his cock jerk of its own volition. He’s a sweaty, groaning mess, a shivering creature of desire kept captive below her.

“Take a hand and play with yourself,” she orders, her voice hoarse behind him. Shaky as he is, it is not a simple movement to redistribute his weight, but he manages to balance on his knees and left hand as his right moves below him. His breath hisses between his teeth as the dual sensations - her cock inside him and his cock in his hand - push him closer and closer to his limit. 

“Don’t make a sound, Hades,” she purrs. “Not a single word until you’re coming.”

Her voice, _her voice_! He attempts to stay silent, teeth digging into his lower lip as she thrusts even faster and her nails dig into his back, but groans and whimpers escape him no matter what he tries. Her words edge him further - murmured encouragement, hints of what she’ll do next, lurid descriptions of future games - until the world narrows to that _feeling_ waiting just out of reach.

He needs to come. He really, really needs to come.

Whether it’s the heightened tension in his shoulders or the frantic jerks of his arm - or if she knows every one of his little tells - she sacrifices speed for force, thrusting deep and hard. His entire body sways with her.

“Come for me, villain.”

Yes, oh gods, yes! The sound that escapes him is half-sob, half-moan as he squeezes his cock harder, as his attention flips between the paired sensations below his hips until everything combines into one glorious experience of pleasure.

And then - 

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!”

Elation - gratification - the complete loss of thought as he crests, his body shivering as it finally allows him his release.

Is he breathing? Does it matter? Does anything matter save this wondrous, filthy, amazing end? It’s dirty - oh, it is _so dirty_ \- and he loves it, as he loves her, as he loves everything they do together - 

Everything she does to him - 

Everything he will do to her -

“Hades.”

A caress, the sweetest sound he’s ever heard, an affirmation, a wealth of information held within two simple syllables -

He blinks and refocuses. He’s on his knees, a mess between his legs, and the collar around his neck is gone. She stands in front of him, free of any harness or toy, wearing one of his dark button-up shirts. He’s panting, _still_ coming down from that astounding high, but something in his chest leaps as her fingers slowly - _slowly_ \- raise the hem of her shirt just past the junction of her thighs.

Hades grins and licks his lips.

*

Y’shtola finds him in the Wandering Stairs the next morning. He raises an eyebrow when she takes a seat at his table, but continues buttering his bread without comment.

“I thought she would have healed you,” the Miqo’te finally says, a strange look in her milky grey eyes. “Thancred mentioned she might.”

Hades resists the urge to bring one hand up to his face as he puts down the butter knife. “You spoke with Thancred?”

“He thought it best he explain the black eye before I jumped to conclusions.” 

“Did he?” Hades pauses. “What did he tell you?’

“Something about a squabble.”

An uncharacteristic flush brings heat to his face. “A _squabble_?”

She shrugs. “A tiff. A scrap. He did something foolish and you reacted in kind. What did the Warrior say?”

“She is unaware,” he says blandly.

“And you, no doubt, prefer it that way.”

He narrows his eyes and pushes his plate away. He is not accustomed to being teased, particularly by one with a demeanor quite like Y’shtola, and whatever appeal his food held before has vanished. “You have the right of it.”

“I’ll see what I can do to convince Urianger to heal you - _both_ of you.” That light in her eyes glimmers again. “Neither of you thought to ask him yesterday?”

His flush darkens as he grits his teeth. He isn’t about to explain that he hadn’t wanted to appear weaker than Thancred - a childish reply, and a childish worry, and something no one needs to know. “We were busy.”

“Of course.” She settles back in her chair, looking him over like a cat with a mouse between her paws. “Has she returned to the Source already?”

“Temporarily. She has an appointment with Tataru, but if nothing pressing requires her attention I imagine she’ll be back on the First by dinner.”

“Leaving you by yourself for the day.”

 _That_ is her game. Hades gestures at the Crystarium around them, donning an expression of mock amazement. “And look at this - the world goes on. No wars, Rejoinings, or Calamities - not even a voidsent to liven up your morning.” He tilts his head ridiculously far to one side, staring wide-eyed at the Scion. “It’s as if I actually mean what I say when I tell you _I am on your side_.”

“Strange,” she murmurs. “I am almost tempted to agree with you.”

“ _Almost_ ,” he repeats, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “After all this time, why is it still merely ‘almost’?”

“A few months’ good behaviour is nothing to scoff at - but you would know better than I whether the scales of judgement tip in or against your favour.” She taps her long nails against the tabletop, watching his reaction as she continues, “I appreciate all you have done in the Empty, and the Exarch often remarks upon your usefulness when it comes to his research - but those are small concerns when compared to the atrocities you’ve committed.”

“I suppose reminding you of the small world’s worth of souls who have fallen at the Warrior’s feet would be remiss of me, would it not?”

“Just as it would be thoughtless of me to remind you of the causes we choose to fight for.”

He recognizes her bait and will not give her the satisfaction of rising to it. She knows just as well as he does that he had little _choice_ in the matter, not since the tempering took effect - but that is what she expects him to say. He flicks invisible dust off his shirt before speaking. “I tire of word games, mage. I can do naught to change the past - unlike your Exarch I do not have the minds of the Ironworks at my beck and call. Tell me a direct path to resolution or admit one does not exist.”

Her blind eyes suddenly spark and she leans forward, her tail twitching wildly behind her. “Elidibus.”

He stares, hoping he misunderstands and knowing he does not. Oh, yes - the Scions would be willing to forgive any number of his crimes were he to destroy the last link in their chain to Zodiark. Even should he fall he would doubtless weaken the Speaker, allowing the Warrior of Light to step in and take care of what remains.

“Elidibus is not a bargaining chip,” Hades finally snarls. “I will not murder him for your approval.”

Her ears flatten against her head, but a scene over her shoulder distracts him. He rises from the table, taking a few hesitant steps forward. The Warrior of Light dashes across the Crystarium grounds, her face flushed and her hair disheveled. The Exarch follows at a distance.

“Bad news?” Y’shtola murmurs, rising to stand beside him.

A spike of foreboding shoots through Hades’s center as he watches his hero advance, as he takes in the regret in her eyes paired with the determined set of her jaw. “Bad news for me,” he murmurs, curling his hands into fists.

“You should sit,” the Warrior says as soon as she’s within range. “Really, Hades - take a seat.”

He shakes his head even as he reaches for her, heedless of the Exarch’s disapproval, of Y’shtola’s raised eyebrow or the strange looks from the other souls in the Wandering Stairs. “What’s wrong? What news from the Source?”

“Hades, I -” She swallows hard, gives her head a little shake, and grasps his upper arms. There is a world of pain and confusion in her dark eyes, a volatile mixture that immediately sets him on edge. “Varis is dead.”

Like being dropped into a cold, mountain lake, breathless shock ripples through Hades. His face flushes hot, then cold, and then hot again as he swirls back and forth between anger and denial; he cannot process it. 

Varis, dead? _His_ Varis? Impossible.

Y’shtola finds her tongue before he does. “How?”

The Warrior’s eyes never leave Hades. “It wasn’t me. I promise with everything I am, I had nothing to do with it.”

He believes her - he _wants_ to believe her - but who else could possibly have struck down the Emperor of Garlemald? Who could have come within reach? Who could have posed such a threat - especially with the Scions trapped on the First?

She sees the question in his eyes and leans closer. “Zenos, Hades. He’s alive.”

“ _Alive_ , alive?” Y’shtola again speaks for him, her shock verging closer to anger than the soul-blasted horror Hades feels clenching his lungs and heart. “Is it not Elidibus wearing Zenos’s skin?”

“No,” the Warrior replies adamantly. “I saw it through the Echo. I cannot entirely explain, but -” She leans closer, her worried eyes shifting back and forth between Hades’s own even as her voice drops. “What do you know of the Resonant?”

He takes a step back. A shudder courses through him and he looks away.

He had not expected they would try to imbue their borrowed Echo within Varis’s rabid whelp; the idea had merely been in the preliminary stages when last he heard of it. That Zenos had deigned to meddle with fate using his own body is an unwelcome surprise.

Beyond that, however, lurks the ugly reality that Varis has been murdered by his own son. Hades knows not what sparked such brutality, nor does he care: what attachment he felt for Varis - distant and fleeting as it may have been - does not apply to his great-grandson. There is no compulsion to avoid confrontation, nor regret at the thought of their paths crossing - nay, any goodwill that may have lingered has been blasted away entirely in the face of this patricide.

“Hades?”

The storm of emotions settles into a thinly-coiled tendril of rage. His dislike of Zenos mutates into violent hatred and he finds himself restraining against the urge to lash out, to tear his nails across the being nearest him, to unleash his power against anyone - _everyone_ \- in his path. It’s a heady rage, an overwhelming and almost cleansing fury that narrows his focus to a pinprick.

“Hades, please!”

Why Zenos did it does not matter. The boy’s deeds demand restitution - 

And is Hades not the perfect judge, jury, and executioner?

“Emet-Selch!”

He blinks at the Warrior of Light, suddenly aware that he has been motionless long enough for faint traces of panic to colour her face. Y’shtola and the Exarch stand behind her, both with hands on their weapons, and an uneasy crowd watches anxiously from a distance.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He cannot lose control - not here, not with these souls present - but that does not mean he must forgo all action completely.

When he reopens his eyes it is with a cold, sleepy-eyed smile. He traces the line of the Warrior’s jaw with one delicate finger, watching her eyes harden.

“Keep me apprised should you return to Garlemald,” Hades croons, letting his smile widen to a feral grin. “I fear I am long overdue for a visit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mere six thousand words later! I try not to half-ass my ass-play. 
> 
> Thank you for every comment, kudos, bookmark, and read-through! It's all much-needed motivation (and some social interaction!!) and I'm so grateful for all of it. Take care in that weird world out there!


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